


move, rip, repeat

by emeralddrop



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Trans Male Character, i will so totally go down with these ships that got mentioned okay i swear, idk its the cliche fall into a video game thinge but i hope it'll be okay, im sorry i got attached to it so badly and i really needed to write it, im sorry i had to add tha toh my god, its also my first work on ao3 please be kIND TO ME, misgendering happens in the beginning beware, this is an oc-insert so heads up, um so this is going to be humor and angst so im
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-24
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-07-18 01:46:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7294573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emeralddrop/pseuds/emeralddrop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emil is about 100% done with Overwatch's shit. He's also 100% done with the cliche-ness of the situation. And he's making sure everyone knows that, while also attempting to fix some of it.</p>
<p>-------------</p>
<p>Also, alternatively, the fic that everyone hates: the asshole OC falls into Overwatch and is internally and externally frustrated by everything that he sees. And ah yes, there's people that really just want the world to end. Dunno why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. move - it begins

Alright, yeah… what the actual fuck.

Um, well, first off, we got Mr. Edgy Hot Topic dude stepping in front of an injured scientific scientist gorilla — or is he a monkey? — man and the shotguns are up and prepped to fire. Except, ya know, McEdgeLord must absolutely stop and declare his victory to the heavens above... But wait Emo Lord, there’s more! Monkey man is thinking. Monkey man is getting his shit together. Monkey man has somehow gotten his hands on that defected shield generator that somehow was placed right next to him and his sorry ass.

Wow. Blizzard gets yet another twenty points for being the cliche drama queen of the century (again). He wasn’t even sure if Pokemon could top that and that was saying something.

Emil rolled his eyes as the cinematic ran to a close. How his friends had gotten dragged down this hellhole was plenty obvious as shown by the intricate and smooth detail in graphics he had seen from the gameplay trailers. Those type of frames were difficult to find in FPS to be perfectly honest. However, why he was still going to buy this stereotypical FPS was beyond the imagination of anybody… (Ignoring the screaming of declarations of war against this entire being if he were not to purchase this game.)

Yet here he was, buying Origin Edition and crying over an empty wallet. And ah yes, you must never forget about this loss of his social life as well for at least a year. Wonderful.

* * *

A light flickers on, emitting a soft orange and white. A familiar color scheme that they could recognize in a heartbeat. The sight produced several different reactions. Some were anxious, scared. Their bodies freeze in place and their hearts, with them. Others are ready, excited. They have been waiting upon this signal for years. Waiting, waiting, waiting. Even more are wary, glaring at the light. They have made enemies, many and diverse, yet they feel that this could be the real thing.

They approach the light, slow, cautious and are confronted with a simple, small question. Yet answering this question held so much danger. Two answers, two paths to choose from. Would they choose the first to dive back into the fray, risking the claiming of the name of outlaws? Or would they perhaps choose the second to continue to hide in the shadows, enjoying their life has they have since it all ended?

Some hesitate to answer, mulling over it. They think, they debate, they tackle it from every single angle, taking their time. Wary they are, of the pain and the suffering, of what may come out of this.

To others however, the answer is incredibly obvious. The former of the two answer is selected without a second thought and coordinates are given. A huff here, while another groans there. Some had quite a journey to make and some were next door.

Yet, despite what they choose, they all begin to **move**.


	2. you really shouldn't sneeze

He slows as he nears his destination, quickly scanning the surrounding area. No signs of unnatural movement. Yet he knew he that could not be right. They had really outdone themselves this time.

Giving a signal to the person following closely behind him, he continued forward, feet careful and silent. Who knew what the others coming to the point may bring straggling behind. Perhaps even the invitation itself was an ambush in the waiting—but that didn’t seem to be the case. Unfortunately, the only way to cement that answer was to move on; and after all, a student should not keep his master waiting any longer than he should be.

Creeping forward, he bent his knees, keeping his stance light but with a slight bounce. He needed to be ready to move at any second. As he approached a doorway, he noted that the door itself, while it had been long gone, a few of the broken hinges remained. Gingerly peering in, he could make out that it was a single room building, a warehouse, in the darkness. Perhaps an old hideout.

Stance still on the defensive, he entered. The air inside was old, musty—dead air. Air that was not used to being breathed, air a person could find in places that were no longer visited. His eyes steadily inspected what his quick glance inside could not. Metal crates were scattered, sizes varying, but were all presumably empty. A single patch of sunlight beamed through a hole in the ceiling and he could see the particles of dust dancing around in the light. Someone was here.

As if responding to his thoughts, a sneeze rang out from the opposite side of the room. He rolled his shuriken into his hand, wary but smart enough not to attack blindly. It would make for a horrible first impression on those that were joining again, but nobody could be too careful. Peeking out from one of the large metal crates, a familiar blue light caught his eyes, but before he could recall from where he knew it from, he felt movement from his left. Someone was advancing towards him and the aura wasn’t friendly; it was dangerous. Extremely so. One that called for taking no risks for this.

" _Ryuuji no kaioken_!"

" _Ryuu ga waga teki wo kurau_!"

" _Ogon po gotovnosti_!"

" _Dòng zhù, bùxǔ zǒu_!"

"Pass into the iris."

He fell back towards his teacher, shurikens still in hand as he continued to dodge the falling debris. It had barely been seconds, yet the warehouse was halfway through collapsing in on itself. _Then again_ , he thought, _it is not everyday when a warehouse has to withstand such powerful attacks_. Zenyatta followed him silently, as they moved forward through the settling rubble, searching for the origins of the attacks through the remains.

Mei-Ling Zhou was the first he found. As she fell out of her peculiar icicle treatment, he could have sworn that she was mumbling something about seeing an unknown person, but Genji soon had to shove that thought to the back of his mind for later contemplation as he heard swearing explode from a nearby slab of concrete.

Rough Russians words were drawn out and bellowed, making it child’s play to identify the source. Aleksandra Zaryanova. No help was necessary from the rest of the party as she shoved off the slab of crumbling concrete that had had her trapped for merely seconds.

Quickly after that, they had found Satya Vaswani, whose quick deducting skills had apparently saved her from being impaled, yet had gotten her leg ensnared under another chunk of concrete.

The dust soon began to settle and as they pulled Symmetra out, their mangled and mismatched party turned to him. He remembered what he had read in the files that Mercy had sent to him about them. The pink haired Russian whose hatred towards Omnics was nearly infamous was checking her weapon, casting glares towards his master. There would be no sign of thanks from her.

The Chinese climatologist, the only to survive from their Antarctic watchpoint incident was also tending to her weapon. She, however, seemed to be a nervous wreck, mumbling things under her breath. From the parts that were more audible, it was easy to pick up that she was speaking in Mandarin.

Vishkar’s poster girl, a master of what they called _hardlight_ , was attempting to clean what little of herself she could. Her pristine weapon was set beside her as she patted down her uniform, which was covered in dust. The ends were ripped and Genji could see frustration pooling off of her.

Taking a step back from the group, it was obvious to see that there would be no room for friendliness, expect perhaps from Mei-Ling Zhou, so he did not question the silence. But they were missing one more, only known to Zenyatta and himself. Surveying the debris, he could only assume that the man had long since fled, no longer trusting the invitation.

Movement caught his eye and for a second, he believed that maybe he had thought wrong.

Regrettably, the American saying that ‘old habits die hard’ held true to this situation. Instead he found something different. Much, much different. There was a body pinned under some of the rock and rubble. Dead?

His assumption was proved incorrect as the body started to cough. Not skipping a beat, he rolled his shuriken back into his arm and jumped down. As he began to shift the first piece of concrete off the body, he examined them. An older teenager, no weapons, and odd civilian clothing. A female. What were they doing by an abandoned Overwatch warehouse?

* * *

Do you know what the best kind of morning is like? No? Let me describe it for you. First, you have to wake up with a pounding headache, the kind that makes you want to puke and then pass out. Second, you have to have a shit ton of tubes and wiring sticking in you. Like a lot, _a lot_. To the point where you lost count at forty-five.Third, you need to add in a mix of ‘I don’t know where I am’.

And, oh gosh, you can’t forget to add in a dash of ‘what the fuck happened to me’ and ‘did I get hit by a truck’ soreness! All of this, makes for a charming morning.

Actually, you know what’s even better? Waking up with all of that and then immediately start to get interrogated. Or at least there was an attempt.

“We can’t just interrogate a patient who is barely conscious! Especially to the extent that she has been injured. She should not even be awake!”

“Ziegler, this _child_ was found underneath the rubble of an Overwatch warehouse where we were gathering people who were responding to the recall. Not only that, the place was _hundreds of clicks_ away from the nearest patch of civilization!”

Yup. Best morning in the world. He had such great luck, didn’t he? His eyes shifted back and forth between the two arguing figures who had apparently forgotten he was still very much awake. One stood in a labcoat, platinum blonde hair tied in a high ponytail. She had some kind of Germanic accent, but it didn’t quite match. Her hands were wrapped tightly around a clipboard which she jabbed at every once in awhile as if to prove a point.

The other was an older man, white hair blending in with the white wall directly behind him. He had a blue visor, fitted with red glass, reflecting some light and covering the near entirety of his face. It was impossible to predict his emotions, but his voice sounded annoyed and rough. Emil had a feeling that his voice held that edge all the time. There was also underlying accent that sounded from the south of the Great US of A. Oklahoma?

W-Wait hold on, back up to their earlier words. The doc had misgendered him, then said something about severe injuries? Enough to keep him knocked out a long longer than apparently he had slept. He sure felt like it. Then Ziegler? He recognized the name, but couldn’t place it. It tickled the back of his brain, but to no avail.

Frowning, he continued sorting through what he could remembered. Rubble of an ‘overwatch’ building? Whatever that meant. What kind of building? A warehouse, yeah. Hundreds of clicks away from the civilization? Huh. So old guy was someone from the military. And what was Emil doing so far away from—wait. Wait, wait, wait. Hold on, _wait_.

Did he just say _Overwatch_?

Emil blinked once, twice. The fog that had been heavy on his brain had started to lift a little earlier, but now was mostly gone. He was able to think relatively clearly and he re-inspected his two captors.

“What the actual fuck.”

Both heads snapped back towards him, the elder man’s forehead crinkled, the only indicator of his annoyance, while the other’s eyes narrowed in disapproval, most likely at the choice of words. It seemed as though the doctor stayed true to the position of team mother.

There was a silence and Emil took that to his advantage to rearrange his thoughts before he blurted out anything more. Standing in front of him seemed to be two people that should be impossible to meet.

John ‘Jack’ Morrison, fifty-something years old, from the great state of Indiana. Call sign is Soldier: 76, an offense hero. Also happens to be the former Golden Boy of Overwatch that everyone had believed was dead after the explosion in Switzerland.

And let’s not forget the literal Angel of them all, Doctor Angela Ziegler, thirty-seven, from Switzerland. Call sign is Mercy, a support hero. She could literally and figuratively touch your soul with her pureness.

Emil let out a sigh and rubbed his eyes, slightly irritated by the amount of things sticking in his arms. If you were going to throw someone into an alternate universe, for god’s sake, put them in a damn universe where there aren’t any highly dangerous fights to save the world. Ya know, one that would allow room for no dying, no fatalities maybe? Anything probably would have been better than this.

Soldier: 76 approached him with a mildly anxious Mercy tailing him.

“Who are you? Who do you work for? Who sent you?” 76 barks, his voice somehow getting even more hostile than it was before.

Rubbing his eyes again, he ignored the questions and hesitantly pushed himself up to a sitting position. These wires and tubing were really starting to piss him off. His hand curled around one of the tubes and pulled it out.

“W-What are you doing?!” Mercy lept forward, chilly hands closing around Emils. She began to look over where he had yanked it out. “You were severely injured and I could not heal you . . . “

Jaw falling slack, she had a look of wild bewilderment on her face. A moment later, she seemed to shake herself out of whatever that was and flipped over his arm, tugging out all the stuff sticking in him, causing some discomfort. Little pinpricks of blood were left where she pulled out something, but it was much better than the having it stuck in his skin. After finishing off his left arm, she leaned over and inspected his right, still having that dumbfounded look on her face.

What was making Mercy going slack jawed?

76 seemed to be having the same thoughts as him, as the elder man questioned it. “Is something wrong?”

She pulled out the last wire, leaving the IV, before turning to answer. “It seems to me that her wounds have healed. All of them.”

There was a jolt, a tiny one, but visible enough from the soldier.

How _bad_ had Emil’s injuries been?

How badly had it been that both Mercy and Soldier: 76 been shocked at his recovery rate? Emil wasn’t exactly what you would call sturdy nor fast healing. He was good at recovering from fatigue and the like, but physical injury was something that was harsh on him. Judging by the silence from 76, this was not looking good for him. Staring down at his now bespeckled arms, he could barely think it through. How?

“Who are you?” he spat out again, as Mercy took away the tubes and wiring. “Who do you work for?”

Honest to god, Emil sort of understood Reaper’s viewpoint on the man now. 76 sounded like a broken record—one that was armed with knives and a bazooka. Stretching out one arm, he knew he had to answer soon. Emil bit his lip, considering his options. There were basically only two here: a, he could spill everything and possibly end up being tortured because they might think he’s lying or b, he could be careful about what words he chose and cut down that chance.

Moving on to the other arm, he hoped his voice would stay steady. “Emil Kim. Don’t work for anyone. But I _do_ have a question: what the hell happened to me?”

Nervous, he readjusted how he was sitting in order to focus his attention elsewhere other than his anxiety-inducing thoughts. He desperately tried to ignore the fact that the two heroes standing in front of him were having an obvious mental conversation. And it didn’t take long until words were being pushed out of his mouth without much thought.

“I mean, when I woke up it felt like I got hit by a truck, but now it’s more like a tingle? I don’t really understand how to explain it. Anyhow, what the hell happened? I mean, I guess I was injured pretty bad considering how much stuff you had sticking in me—“

“Shut it,” 76 snapped.

The next thing that came out of his mouth could easily be blamed on nerves. “Well _goddamn_ , grandpa,” he spit, bitterness pouring out of every pore, “why don’t you get off your rickety, wrinkled ass and shut it for me.”

 _Kinky_ was the first thing that came to his mind, before the reality of the situation really set in. He had just sass talked John ‘Jack’ Morrison who would have no qualms about tearing his head off. Or blowing it off for that matter.

He gulped. Tense silence. Mercy held a face of shock while Morrison stared on, seemingly emotionless from what he could make out his visor. But Emil knew otherwise. He had _really_ fucked up.

“I’m throwing her in a cell,” he replied, steadily, voice void from any emotion.

Emil’s eyes widened. He really had fucked up… dude, he had just pissed off _Soldier fucking 76_. “Hey! W-Wait a minute—“

He was cut off as the veteran yanked him out of the bed, ripping the IV out of him. Mercy looked on concerned, but made no move to stop him. While Morrison’s grip was rather painful, the situation itself was honestly hilarious if you took a step back. Dear old Dad here was annoyed over the fact that Emil, a seventeen year old, had just pulled a fast one on him. He wondered if he would live to tell the tale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> people really shouldn't sneeze in the middle of a warehouse.
> 
> also so sorry for how long this chapter took to come out. ;w;/ i promise i've been working on it really hard. i also want to thank everyone who gave it kudos like i screamed when i saw the first kudo. thanks so very much. im still brand new to ao3 so i have no idea how to use this site.
> 
> also, shoutout to kasumiafkgod from tumblr for being my wonderful beta. ;w;
> 
> come visit me at my tumblr: http://emeralddrop.tumblr.com


	3. when in doubt, play stupid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hot Topic needs to take back their love child that they made with Overwatch.

“Get up.”

Emil just about jumped out of his skin at the sound of the rough voice that pierced through his drowsy reverie. The voice was deep, slightly accented, and it sounded like death itself had paid a visit to the source. It also sounded familiar—and not in a good way. Rubbing his eyes, he gave himself a moment to stretch out his sore body and to settle his frazzled nerves. It would do no good to have an anxiety attack right now.

Looking up at the door, he realized, with a sinking feeling, that his earlier guess of who was standing at his door was right on target. Rather than focusing on that tidbit, he decided to wonder just what in the actual living  _ fuck  _ was Reaper doing here. According to what he had gleaned off the lore from fan fictions, the guy standing in front of him belonged to Talon, aka, the enemy. Or at least what was a mercenary working underneath Talon for the time being. He narrowed his eyes. What was a Talon operative doing in an Overwatch base? Wasn’t there any alarms he had tripped while getting in here? People that he had to pass by?

He approached the door slowly, eyeing Reaper. He looked about as edgy as he looked in game, if not edgier, considering it actually looked like real leather. How could you even move in that stuff? If there were Hot Topics here in Overwatch, Emil was 300% sure spent at least half or maybe even all of his paycheck there. If he got a paycheck.

As if on cue, Reaper lifted his head revealing a certain white mask.

“Dude, are you a  _ barn owl _ ?” escaped his lips before he could even comprehend what he actually wanted to say. It wasn’t his fault that Reaper had just happened to choose that moment look up when Emil had moved closer, giving him a clear view of his mask. And it was a barn owl mask, no mistake about it. In game, it tended to appear like a mix of a skull and a barn owl, making room for heated debate about the mask, especially on Reddit.

Luck seemed to be on his side today, thankfully, as Reaper breathed out a low chuckle as a response to Emil’s seemingly immature question. For a second there, he couldn’t help but feel a touch of pride. After all, it wasn’t everyday a person made a jerk like Reaper laugh without having to die. Which brought him to his next horrible thought:  _ what was Reaper doing here _ ?

As Emil inspected the leather clad man up and down, the McEdgeLord had turned his attention to the panel of sorts that was next to do the door, making it painfully obvious that he wasn’t going to be answering with anything useful to any questions. Then again, Emil wasn’t supposed to know that Reaper was with Talon. Emil wasn’t supposed to know a lot of things about this world.  _ Play stupid _ .

“Since I doubt you’ll be answering any of my questions about why that soldier asshole threw me in here, I’m gonna point out the clicheness of your mask.” He shifted his weight over to his right, hip jutting out and his arms crossed. “I was like, super interested in the mythology behind owls in certain cultures for some reason a few weeks back. I think it had something to do with a friend or whatnot.”

A wall of silence was what it was met with, but it was to be expected so Emil didn’t miss a beat.

“I learned something cool though. Owls are a sign of death, or rather, harbingers of death would be a better way of phrasing it. Especially in Mexican culture.”

The pressure in the room had doubled, tension growing like a dry sponge in water. Emil had hit a nerve, deadon, while also confirming the reason behind his mask and the man’s dramatic-like habits. The urge to start banging his head against the wall began. He knew that this was not a good thing to bring up with Reaper, especially so when he had no escape route. Nibbling on his bottom lip, he knew he would need to fix the mood or otherwise end up six feet under within five minutes.

His next few words were slow, taking his time to choose the right words like a puzzle. “But owls are also considered to be old souls. They bring the power of keen observation. Patience.”

Emil paused, taking in the atmosphere. Silence. The earlier tension had diminished drastically, but was still there, ready to slip back in. But it had been replaced by another feeling: regret. Heart stabbing, aching regret. Suddenly, he found himself wishing that the dangerous tension would come back.

Shrugging off the feeling, he instead tried to crack a grin, looking Reaper dead in what he assumed to be the older man’s eyes. “They also happen to be messengers of warning. So mister edgy messenger bird, do you have a message for me?”

Honestly, if Emil could dump his body into the nearest trash can, he  _ would _ . The whole entire conversation had been cringe worthy, like it had fallen out of  _ My Immortal _ or some shit. A roll of low chuckles broke through his thoughts.

“ _ Tú es un niño extraño _ ,” Reaper rumbled, shifting back over to the keyboard to screw around with it more.

_ You are a strange kid _ .

Emil raised an eyebrow. Did fucking  _ Reaper  _ just call him out in  _ Spanish _ ? Oh hell  _ no _ .

“I don’t know man, but a guy decked out in black leather wearing a mask based on edgy culture, and just  _ tosses  _ his guns after using them instead of reloading seems a bit fucking worse.”

There was a brief pause in the hispanic man’s movements, but it was still there. A shiver ran down his spine as it came upon Emil that he had probably just fucked up again. It was a miracle he was still alive from insulting 76, but insulting Reaper? No way man, you ain’t getting out of this one. Reaper had no moral compass as far as Emil knew, and made 76 pale in comparison in regards to how he would choose to kill Emil.

The only thing right now that was probably saving his ass was the fact that Reaper was in the middle of an Overwatch base and maybe the fact that Reaper was probably surprised by the fact that he could speak Spanish. Or at least understand it. Or maybe he assumed that Emil had taken a wild guess. Before he could really consider what he was about to do, it rolled out of his mouth.

“ _ ¿Tu hablas español? _ ”

“ _ Habla un poco de español _ .  _ Es suficiente _ .”

His tongue seemed too big to push the words out of his mouth, stumbling over some of the pronunciation, but it was enough. Unlike most who had forgotten what they had learned from high school language classes, he had retained most of it. Mainly due to the fact that he really liked to curse people out in another language which wasn’t Korean nor English, which was usually a rather smart choice where he lived.

There was more silence before Reaper spoke. “Your  _ español  _ sucks,  _ chica _ .”

The door abruptly swung open and he took a step back, obviously moving to make his getaway. Emil looked around, eyebrows scrunched. What the hell was he doing?

The confusion must have been plain to see as Reaper gave snicker, one that send chills pouring down his spine. “I am an owl, am I not? Tell the  _ abuelito  _ that reaping time is upon them.  _ Hasta la próxima, chica _ .”

He dispersed into black smoke and a distinct thud. Emil stared.

_ Chica  _ resonated in his head and he wrinkled his nose. The misgendering here was getting annoying. Of course, he was used to it back home, having never really came out to his parents (there wasn’t really a need), but this was starting to grate on his nerves. Grumbling, he rubbed his eyes starting to feel a headache coming on and his achy muscles didn’t exactly help his case.

What else had that guy said? Something about telling him to warn grandpa—presumably Soldier: 76—of ‘reaping time’ of whatever that wa—.

Oh.  _ Oh _ .

A warning. But why would Reaper want to give Overwatch a warning? To be all the more edgy? Dramatic? A stray thought that he might want to help Overwatch came to mind along with all the fan theories that people had crafted. Maybe one of them was right. He flattened down his crumpled black t-shirt that 76 had given him. Right now wasn’t the time to be day dreaming.

Emil stepped out of his cell and he felt his foot hit something that started to roll away. Looking down, he saw a black canister, highlighted with red. It was one of the cartridges or whatever from Reaper’s belt. He knelt down to grab it before turning it over in his hands. A gun cartridge for his shotguns? No, Reaper never reloaded. Plus there was that video explaining why the dude never reloaded.

Standing back up, he shoved the thing into his equally black (and borrowed) sweatpants pocket and looked both ways. Where the living hell had he come from? Groaning, his eyes flickered between the two paths. When in doubt, always go left… right?

Not wanting to think on it much longer, he made to go left, but paused as the cartridge in his smacked against his thighs. “...how was I supposed to know about his shotguns?”

So much for pretending that Emil didn’t know a single thing about Overwatch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry that it took so long for this to come out and it's so short. I was running into a lot of writers block and stuff and was super busy and ahhhhh!! Also, excuse my half assed spanish thansk bysd
> 
> quick español guide;  
> ¿Tu hablas español? :: you speak spanish?  
> Habla un poco de español. Es suficiente. :: i speak a little spanish. it's sufficient/enough.  
> chica :: girl (regards to a female kid i guess??)  
> Hasta la próxima :: see you later i think (lmao)

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was born out of ideas and dreams, to be honest. That, I'm really annoyed by a lot of the cliche-ness of Overwatch so Emil is my relief. I really hope you guys like it. My first fic on here, ahahahahaha. ^^;; Um, please come visit me at my Tumblr and I swear I will love you forever, bye.
> 
> Tumblr: http://emeralddrop.tumblr.com


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